A Night Without Armor: Poems by Jewel Kilcher

By Jewel Kilcher

I have realized that no longer all poetry lends itself to tune -- a few innovations must be sung purely opposed to the silence. There are softer and no more tangible part[s] of our selves which are so necessary to peace, to openheartedness, to unfolding the imaginative and prescient and the non secular realm of our lives, to exposing our souls. - Jewel, From the Preface Writing poems and conserving journals for the reason that formative years, Jewel has been trying to find fact and that means, turning to her phrases to checklist, to find, and to mirror. In an evening with out Armor, her first choice of poetry, Jewel explores the fireplace of old flame, the fading of ardour, the giving of belief, the teachings of betrayal, and the therapeutic of intimacy.She delves into issues of the house, the relief of kinfolk, the great thing about Alaska, and the dislocation of divorce. after which there are the pictures of the line, the folk, the bars, the planes, locations unique and mundane, loneliness and friendship. Frank and sincere, severe and abruptly playful, an evening with out Armor is a skilled artist's intimate portrait of what makes us uniquely human.

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Many lovers have been taken down exalted, fallen, risen kissed by the purple finger that seeks the plum blossomed Love. I have no Lover only my pen and an answering machine back in the States which no one calls. I am told I am adored by millions but no one calls. 32 Tai Pei £ Thick night, a cobalt expanse littered with the bright shock of yellow and orange neon signs boasting their wares, dried fruit or wedding dresses in the latest style. A humid claw clings to me, every movement anticipated by this moist air, this Asian sky with its endless fields yawning unseen beneath it.

I wondered if all the brothers in all the world were leaving, and if there would only be us sisters left to occupy the empty rooms with doll clothing and postcards. 37 A Couple bitting on a Bench He's the skinny one of the two. He reminds her of it constantly. He's a very funny guy that way— ha-ha as she wobbles-to-walk wobbles-to-walk. 38 bnvy passionless bodies with pointless little limbs that flaunt in vain such narrowness of frame with nothing to offer but bone 39 rretty There is a pretty girl on the Face of the magazine And all I can see are my dirty hands turning the page 40 I hose (^ertain O i r l s I am fascinated by those certain girls you know the ones the w o m e n that are always girls t h e i r tiny bodies like neglected willow trees controlled and contorted which may blow away with the slightest d i s a p p o i n t m e n t 41 bausagcs While leaving the a i r p o r t , a gypsy w o m a n stole my luggage.

She boarded quietly, but her eyes grazed me with malignant anger. She is awake now. I turn away, look out the window. Reaching for the phone the sleeve of her business jacket lifts, revealing a neat row of round burn marks all up her forearm. Was she hurt as a child? Was it a late husband, mean boyfriend, crazy sex fetish? I try to catch the title of the book she's reading for clues. 28 It's just some mystery novel. I can tell I ' m making h e r uneasy. I go back to my writing. A. Dark secrets h u n t i n g h e r insides, softness sucked out, a deep sadness i n h e r eyes.

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